Babydoll
by Lavender Mansworth
Summary: I've been working on this on and off for months. Probably the only decent thing I have up here by now. SiriusBella, longish but read it through.


You used to call me Babydoll. You said I was delicate like a china doll. Secretly that meant insecure, but you never said it. I managed to keep myself blind to that innuendo and relished the moments when I could hear you shout, "Babydoll, over here," or "Let me walk you to class, Babydoll." It gave me a sense of identity like no other. I was your babydoll. I was your fragile, porcelain minded toy – just what I wanted to be. I could always count on you to be gentle with my breakable body and to brush the dust from my clothes and to put me up on my shelf when you were done playing with me so I wouldn't be damaged. It was a simple existence. I could have gone on in it forever. When you weren't there anymore, there was no one to protect me and I just…broke. I was neglected and not taken care of properly so I did what all china dolls do. I broke.

There was something. I know there was because I can still feel it. Unless an emotion can be created long after its basis has turned to dust. Which maybe it can. Ha, if anyone could do it, I could. You taught me to always break the rules, didn't you? Always question what was accepted. Always challenge authorities. Authorities so great as your own mind? I didn't know if you'd ever gone that far. "Give her an inch and she'll take the world overnight," you always said about me. Always a woman of my word, darling, so I took your ideas and ran with them. It annoyed you, oh it did. As much as you wish you could call yourself amiable and generous, you were a jealous thing, you were. If someone thought of something before you, it would be weeks before you'd get over the fact that you hadn't conceived the idea yourself. It was that notion that sparked your rage every time you saw me kissing another man. I could see your mind racing: Why didn't _I_ think of that? I don't know, love, why _didn't _you think of it? You were smart enough, certainly, with what you lacked in the academic department compensated for with your wit and cunning outside of the school. You just never had… tact. You never had tact sweetheart, as much as I hate pointing out your shortcomings. You hate it too, I know… I'll stop.

I wish I could still see you now. Last night, I thought of getting a shovel out of the garden shed and digging up your grave. Just to see you. Just to touch your face again. To tug gently at your hair like I always did when you were upset. Morbidity was always my forte. I don't know, I guess I thought that maybe it could make everything better again, like it used to. How horrible, how typical of me. "Like it used to." That's me, eh love? Always longing for the past. You told me I should focus that energy on the future and maybe I'd make something of myself, remember? I did, you know. Make something of myself, I mean. But a part of me always stays with times past.

I didn't go to the graveyard last night, by the way. I didn't even go outside. I knew I couldn't do that to you – or myself. I looked out my window, though, and I wondered if you could see me sleeping from the stars. I wondered if you reached down sometimes and trace the shape of my face with your fingers like you used to as I fell asleep. Ha, there I go again. Memories claw their way into my thoughts so often that I mix them up with reality. Sometimes I think I'll see you, sitting at the table, waiting for breakfast. Sometimes I'll wake up and look to my side, expecting to have you there. It's those times that hurt the most, because they remind me that I so often hated those times I now remember fondly.

Why did I hate you? _How_ could I hate you? Never mind, that's ridiculous, because I still hate you. No, no, that's not what I mean. My lives then and now are so skewed that I need something to connect them. Now that link is hatred. I used to hate you for hurting me, now I hate you for leaving me. I used to hate you for your greed, now I hate you for bringing sympathy upon me. I used to hate you for hating me, but now I hate you for _not_ hating me. You don't hate me enough for me to feel it through. I suppose you could still hate me, from wherever you are. I know you're somewhere; you have to be, because if you're not then I can't be there either someday. And if that's the case I might as well just kill myself now and be done with this pointless charade.

I won't though, because I need something to give you when I see you again. I need answers to the questions you always asked. Some so impossible I might need five lifetimes to figure them out. I need stories to tell you as we sit by a fire and talk each other to sleep. Do they have fires there? Perhaps they don't, that makes me think of some kind of Hell. I'll tell you stories while you lie in bed at night, sleepless as usual, and I'll smooth your hair over and over while we talk about all the things I learned when you were gone. And when you finally doze off, in the early hours of morning, I'll crawl in beside you and dream of the same sweet things you do.

I almost gave that up once. I wasn't going to tell you, but it occurred to me that that was a silly thought since you watch over me (you have to – another "have to") and already know. You know everything about me now. Not that that's changed anything from before. You always had that unnerving tendency to know what I was thinking, to know what I feeling. Whether or not you used that knowledge was my greatest frustration.

I don't mean that. I wasn't frustrated with you. I just didn't understand. I think. Well, it could have been a mild petulance on my part. I was so choosy, so irritable. It was my fault… It's always my fault I suppose. How can anything be your fault, you're not even here anymore. I can't put blame on you. You never liked that. You know though, I always thought you should have taken more responsibility. That's gone now, dearest, don't worry. You can do anything you want and I won't care. I probably should, but I won't let myself, love, I won't for your sake. If only I could see you right now I'd be completely submissive to your will, truly I would. I would forget all those weaknesses that I hated, I would cater to your every whim, I would neglect myself completely if you wished it. You probably would.

Maybe you've changed though. Maybe you'd kiss me with truer passion than was ever felt in life and tell me to do nothing but sit in your arms for all eternity… Oh God, I hope you haven't changed. You should stay exactly as you were because I loved you as you were. What if I don't love you anymore if you change? What I _can't_ love you anymore? What if I waste my life away empowering myself for your benefit only to die and find that my adoration for you doesn't exist anymore? People tell me I should have left you long ago. "Don't put up with his shit," they told me. I did though, and I liked it though I would never ever admit that. I loved you and everything you put me through. I've been called a masochist and denied it, but maybe I am. All I can tell you is that I couldn't imagine going forever without again feeling that compelling sense of command you had over me. I fought it entirely with my mind but never with my heart. I couldn't imagine an eternity without another one of our vicious fights. Another one of those violent, vicious fights that I cried over with a smile.

No one ever talks about you anymore. It's like you never existed. Occasionally I'll let myself have an afternoon of peace and pretend that you really never did. You were all in my imagination. But then I'll see something that reminds me of you and I have to believe that you were real because a feeling of nostalgia so strong as what I feel can only mean that I'm crazy if I feel it about something imaginary. I don't know anymore, love, maybe I am crazy. Maybe I was crazy for loving you, crazy for wanting you with me forever. But if I'm crazy, then you're crazy too. Are you crazy, dearest? Are you raving, deliriously insane wherever you are? That wouldn't bother me, don't worry. I always felt that there was a sort of switch within me that could adapt to whatever situations you chose to throw at me. I think I tried to be like you sometimes. Did you know that? I kid myself. Of course you did. I thought that if I tried my hardest to be just like you, then maybe we could finally reach that level of compatibility that I saw in slightly less dysfunctional couples of our school. They looked so content walking hand in hand through the corridors while we kept our distance from each other and communicated only through shooting glares.

After you died, I – dammit, I hate that. After you _left_, I tried to talk to someone about it. A couple people actually. Not that I was actually planning to tell them the truth about anything I was feeling – the attention would soothe me bit by bit. They patted me on the shoulder and furrowed their eyebrows in a mask of concern. I was the intoxicated teenager crying over a tiff with her boyfriend. You meant so little to them that I suppose that's all the value it really held. Intoxication is a good word. I must have seemed drugged on _something_ to them. They couldn't possibly even begin to fathom why I cared so much about your… leaving. No one ever fully grasped the concept that I loved you. It was a joke to them. It was something so absolutely unbelievable that they all convinced themselves that it was some sort of act. An act that went on for years nonetheless, but still something fake. Nothing to be taken seriously. Maybe we weren't. I never really knew whether you thought of it as such or not. I certainly committed my utmost to making the relationship as flippant as possibly. Clearly I failed.

Honestly though, could you ever really bring yourself to be defined by something like a relationship? You could never contain yourself within something as insubstantial as a verbal classification. Then you would no longer be Sirius. You would be Sirius: In a Relationship. You'd never go for it. Even something noncommittal. Why? I don't really know. Somehow I have the feeling that even if it was what you wanted most in the world, you wouldn't have allowed yourself to have it. As much as you wanted to remain an individual, you had already labeled _yourself_. Sirius: Independent Individual. What if you needed me, sweetest? What if that very state of mind is what led to your downfall? You would have said you didn't care. And you wouldn't have changed anything. But before the time came, it would have killed you inside to know that you were going to die and could do nothing about it.

I mean, maybe you're not as invincible as I'm sure you still believe you are. You're making excuses from the grave, I'd bet anything. Maybe, just maybe, you are _exactly like everyone else._ You never were – and never will be – the unfettered, disconnected-from-all-things-mortal being that you showed yourself off as. When people are given a challenge, they comply. Human nature, precious, you should know all about it. You called out for conflict, clear as crystal. I never tried to stop you. Maybe that was supposed to tell me something. Either that I was delusional, ignorant, or that what happened to you didn't matter to me as much as I liked to think. I think I'll go with the latter, because you know what – I don't like to criticize myself either. You're not the only one with insecurities, Babydoll. Even if it's never mentioned, you're just as weak and fragile as me, remember.

Then again, I suppose something delicate can't support something equally flimsy. Physics or something. Maybe another thing you should have learned about. I need an anchor. Something to lean on and keep me grounded. I don't need someone invisible to pour out my problems too. Everyone imaginary word only cracks my pale porcelain façade further; tiny hammers beating down on my rouged ceramic cheeks and my brittle glass frame until I crumble and I am no more. I only realize this once I lie in a pile of china dust and think what might have been. Good one, love, you've finally driven me to the breaking point… stop giggling at the pun. Unintended. I'm getting a little frustrated, dear. Unheard of, I know. I guess now that I'm in pieces, it all starts leaking out, little by little. Soon this frustration will come to the realization that nothing is containing it anymore. Then what? Suppression is dangerous, haven't you heard. You know, maybe I don't need you as much as I believed I did. Maybe you aren't the only one that could ever take care of me the way you did. I could have someone else come and hold me. They could talk to me and say all the things you did. It wouldn't be hard, trust me. It doesn't take much to comfort me, as you know. Maybe I was wrong. Yeah, that sounds right… Oh, you can go away now. I really must stop talking to myself.


End file.
